Distance covered today: 183 miles
Distance covered total: 2,099 miles
Estimated mileage remaining: 1,935 miles (48% left to go)
The remainder of my night at Willow Creek was pretty miserable (and that’s an understatement). Victimized by the penetrating cold, I don’t think I pieced together more than 20 or 30 minutes of consecutive sleep the rest of the night. Even what little shut-eye I did manage was plagued by nightmares about scooting, which has evidently infiltrated my subconscious. In one such episode, I dreamt that a couple seemingly innocent wrong turns had led me all the way back to Illinois or Indiana, one of those ‘I’ states, negating a week of forward progress. In another bad dream, I took a spill on the scooter, leaving some unsightly scrapes on the formerly gleaming body of the Metro (this, of course, was of greater importance than any personal injuries I sustained in the wipeout).
At least my failure to sleep in the low 40-degree temperatures allowed me to get an early start the next morning. As soon as the sun was up, so was I, startling a few nearby deer as I emerged, shivering, from my tent. While packing up, a real-life scooting nightmare unfolded before me when the seat of the Metro came completely off its hinges.
I knew the West would be tough, but I hadn’t envisioned this pathetic spectacle- me standing in the frigid cold in a deserted campsite, clutching the Metro’s unattached seat like a severed limb, with a stupid look on my face.
I didn’t have the right sized wrenches or screwdrivers to resolve the crisis at hand, so I had to improvise by clumsily propping the seat into its rightful position and crudely securing it in place with the latch normally used to open/close it. Testing it out, the seat could wiggle underneath my weight, and I was nervous that a couple good- or even mediocre- bumps in the road could dislodge it again, potentially resulting in some disastrous road-rash (or worse). Another concern was the seat’s sudden inability to safeguard my cargo stored within, but my gut feeling was that there weren’t too many highway bandits lurking ‘round these parts. Not that I really had a choice, but I would just have to take my chances warding off thieves and exercising questionable safety while waiting to get the seat fixed somewhere down the road (maybe as far off as Boulder, CO).
There were still no signs of life in Willow Creek as I rolled out of the campground. With my imagination still cooking up crazy what-ifs, I thought that it could make for an interesting morning if I were to motor back into civilization only to find that nuclear warfare or some devastating pandemic had wiped everybody out overnight, forcing me to start a nomadic scooter tribe to lawlessly roam the land. But this post-apocalyptic scenario blatantly inspired by Mad Max did not unfold, as the townspeople of Pierce were stirring and didn’t appear to be in some anarchist frenzy or a zombie-like stupor. Life had gone on without me, and now it was back to business as usual. Only a few miles past Pierce, the road came to a T and I turned west for another run on our old friend: Route 20!
At this point, Route 20 was becoming the guy from every cheesy action movie who is left for dead but makes a hugely improbable and beyond miraculous comeback. Ya know, the dude who gets shot 14 times in the chest, then falls into a river only to get washed over the edge of an enormous waterfall. Everyone mourns briefly but courageously presses on because “it’s what he would’ve wanted.” Well, Route 20 and I had parted ways in similar fashion. I’d seen him do some crazy things, and emerge from some rowdy brawls, but I thought there was no way he’d survive that plunge into those croc-infested waters…
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| "THIS guy again..." |
But of course I was wrong to have doubted the old codger. As fate would have it, my impulsive detour up to South Dakota would bring us together once more. It’s only fitting that Route 20, my right-hand man for the bulk of the trip, would join me for one last hurrah and the start of my foray into the Wild West.
Well, that’s how Hollywood would’ve tried to portray our improbable reunion, but 20 differed from the script when, instead of greeting me with a smile, tired shake of the head, and an overused line like “I’m gettin’ too old for this shit”, it didn’t even acknowledge me and went on assailing me with the same wind and cold.
Not to beat a dead horse, but seemingly every day I’m contending with new levels of cold and wind. Today the stiff, unrelenting headwind was so fierce that initially I had feared that the scooter had lost its speedy superpowers from yesterday, as it could only muster 35 mph. At another point, the wind rippin’ through my earflaps was so loud that I did a Scream Test and could not hear my own full-throated bellow above the howl.
But instead of boring you with more descriptions of wind, cold, and cornfields, I want to shed some light on other aspects of life on the road by addressing some “frequently asked questions” and trying to describe the small day-in and day-out things that contribute to the scooting experience.
* * *
“You have a GPS, right?”
No. I often joke that all I need is the setting sun to find my way, but obviously there’s more to it than that. I take special pride in using mostly old-school navigation techniques (usually getting a fold-up road map whenever I enter a new state, and asking directions at gas stations at times when I get a little lost in some city or town), but new technologies have certainly helped my cause. Most days, before hitting the ol’ dusty I’ve used Google Maps (and their nifty “Avoid Highways” checkbox) to eyeball the best route, and will write down a brief list of directions that I pocket and can consult on the road whenever necessary. In times of slightly greater confusion/desperation, I turn on my phone (it’s usually off to conserve battery) and can fire up Google Maps on my little touch-screen if I have to (and if there’s service). At other times, I use my “phone-a-friend” lifeline to ring someone up and ask for help. I’m confident I’d be able to make it from Point A to Point B with or without these fancy technologies as a crutch, but they are good to have around for peace of mind.
“What do you do about food?”
I think many people envision me stopping at roadside cafes and diners along my route, but that’s not what happens. Believe me, I would’ve liked to hang out and talk with the regulars at some hole-in-the-wall main street diner where a guy named Vern has sat in the same seat and ordered the same thing everyday at 5:30 since 1974, but I don’t have the time or the money to do so. I usually eat dinner and breakfast with my host for the night, and often abscond with a morsel of food that will serve as my lunch. For the stretches of the trip when I’m on my own, or if I’m in need of additional sustenance, then I stop at a grocery store and pick something out, like a sandwich from the prepared foods section. I keep a pile of Clif-Bars handy, as well as some surprisingly delicious powdered smoothie mix packets (just add water!) that were recommended to me before my trip. Fortunately, America’s backroads bear little resemblance to the fast-food corridors of the interstates, and I have no intention of eating any fast-food or gas station junk food all trip.
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| Stereotypical Great Plains image. |
“So, like, do you just ride on the shoulder or something?”
No, I almost never drive along the shoulder (that’s technically illegal), but I do regularly pull over to the shoulder to let cars pass if a handful of them are puddling up behind me. Normally though, I simply drive to the far right side of the lane and keep a watchful eye on my rearview mirror so that I know when to give cars a wide berth to pass me. Something that really grinds my gears is when a car thinks they’re doing me a favor by not passing me, with more and more cars piling up behind them all the while. When this happens, my frustration rises steadily until I pull over to the shoulder and stop to let the river of cars go by, killing my momentum in the process. As all of them pass, they surely think that I’m the bad guy who had been clogging up the road by going 35 mph, but really it was the loser who couldn’t grow a pair and pass me in the first place! And of course as I wait patiently on the side of the road, no car ever moves over to let me rejoin the flow of traffic, so I have to wait for e.v.e.r.y.o.n.e. to creep by and for another opening to present itself.
Excuse the rant, but I suppose the moral that I’d like you to take away from this story is to use common sense if you ever find yourself poised to overtake a road-faring scooterist. Just avoid extremes- don’t be the asshole who speeds within six inches of them at 70 mph, but also avoid being the guy too timid or overly “nice” to pass them. Go for it!
“Do you just listen to your iPod all day? Do you just sit there? What do you think about?”
No, I don’t listen to my iPod while driving (again, pretty sure that’s illegal), and yes, I suppose I do just kind of sit there. A lot of people have expressed that they wouldn’t be able to take the tedium of just sitting there, but really, it’s not so bad. In this age of hyper-stimulation and being glued to some electronic device 24/7, it’s kind of liberating to be unplugged and able to think freely. You should take off the headphones and give it a shot sometime, even if you’re just on the bus or walking down the street.
But the real name of the game is staying comfortable, and the key to keeping your body fresh is to switch up positions with regularity. Every 10 minutes or so, I find my body naturally shifting around, and a handful of distinct poses have emerged as my go-to riding positions. A few of them are briefly described below (keep in mind that your right hand is stuck holding the gas at all times, but that, your backpack, and the need to face forward, are the only factors limiting your freedom).
The Turtle/Tuck: Your standard tuck position, this crouch is used in situations when I need to maximize speed and/or minimize exposure to the elements (such as rain or wind) by hiding behind the pitifully small windshield.
The Thinker: It’s exactly what it sounds like. Right hand on the gas, chin resting pensively on the left fist, with weight distributed through the left forearm to the lap. It probably looks a little humorous to onlookers, but The Thinker definitely gets my vote for Most Comfortable Position (MCP).
The Natural Slouch: Kind of my default riding position.
The Absurdly Good Posture: Good for your health and for stretching out your back, but you look like an idiot that people would want to beat up.
The Spread Eagle Leg Stretch: For when you need to stretch the legs but don’t want to pull over. Just don’t let your feet hit the pavement.
The “We’re #1”: Index finger held aloft in jubilation as if to suggest the bearer is #1. The pose of choice at particularly triumphant moments, such as state border crossings.
And my mom won’t be proud to hear it, but there are two “Don’t Try This at Home” positions…
The Standing Up: Discovered out of boredom and the need to stretch my legs, I found that it’s possible (and kind of comfortable) to stand up while scooting.
The Look Mom No Hands: Where you wedge your right knee up on the handlebar to hold back the gas, and can then let both your arms free. Try on empty roads for best results.
“Any unfortunate run-ins with tough bikers and/or truckers?”
No, I haven’t had any encounters with a ‘Sea Bass’ type from Dumb & Dumber (at least, not yet). Not to jinx it, but I’m not expecting any trouble. I’ve been very pleasantly surprised with the level of safety and security that I’ve enjoyed both on and off the road. But should the situation get a little sticky in some truck stop, I like to think that the my own personal brand of biker bravado will get me out of a jam.
If you somehow didn’t pick up on it, the statement at the end of that last paragraph was a joke. With the exception of my helmet, my riding attire is the polar opposite of what you’d expect a serious leather-clad biker to wear. That helmet sure does have some character, though. It’s this scraped-up and battle-scarred “skid lid” that I somehow inherited from an uncle who had done some much more serious riding back in the day (of the motorcycle variety, even). The helmet looks like it’s definitely been introduced to the pavement before, and would look natural adorning the head of some WW II infantryman.
My favorite part of the helmet is its three stickers. These aren’t decorative stickers aiming to beautify the scratched surface, but instead were originally used to make a statement in defiance of Michigan helmet laws that presumably made the rider look like some sissy little girl. “LET THOSE WHO RIDE DECIDE” one proclaims, while another reads, “THIS HELMET IS WORN UNDER PROTEST” and the last sticker sums up the matter by stating, “HELMET LAWS STILL SUCK”. These don’t actually reflect my personal views on helmets and biking safety, but still, much the way wimpy animal species mimic their lethal brethren with knock-off warning stripes and threatening markings, I enjoy flaunting this outward appearance of being a hardened, anti-helmet, biking old-timer, and like to think that it can only help my cause should a fracas ever ignite.
And while we’re on the subject of more hardcore biking types… I mean… I really shouldn’t tell you this, as it almost assuredly breaches the unwritten and unspoken code of secrecy governing the biking fraternity, but I’m slowly learning some customs of the road for us bikers. The first lesson in learning to look like you belong is to master the biker’s wave of acknowledgment. I quickly discovered that “The Wave” is hardly a wave at all. Instead of lifting your hand vertically and showing some sort of positive emotion, bikers traveling in the opposite direction assess one another with a steely-eyed look to determine their rival’s worthiness, and if you each pass the vetting process, you’re rewarded with a mutual exchange of “The Wave”: a two-fingered point with your left arm slowly and coolly extended outward, pointing at a downward angle, perhaps accompanied by a stone-faced half-nod.
If you don’t understand or can’t picture it from that description, that’s OK- it’s a biker thing.
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| Roadkill victim in Iowa. |
“Do you see a lot of wildlife?”
Yes, minus the “life” part. I see heaps of animals, but that’s the thing… they actually are heaped on the side of the road in an inanimate and mushy state. Chances are, if it roams the Lower 48, I’ve seen it, only instead of bounding happily through a field, it’s sprawled on the side of the road as another nameless victim of our societal roadkill epidemic. Seriously though, one of the biggest constants of my day-to-day travel has been witnessing the staggering amount of roadkill that litters the country’s roads. It seems that almost every mile of road features some crusty, bloody, furry, feathery mess splattered on the asphalt.
It’s estimated that tens of millions of animals are killed by cars in the U.S. every year, and those are just the cute and fluffy varieties that are easy to see, check on a clipboard, and toss into a truck- it’s much harder to generate data on loads of smaller species that also get squished. I believe the numbers too, having seen dead deer, coyotes, cats, raccoons (some of which look about as big as six-year old kids), skunks, porcupines, rabbits, groundhogs, squirrels, snakes, frogs, turtles, and hundreds of John Doe specimens that have been mutilated to a point beyond recognition. It’s yet another sad side effect of our automotive culture, but unfortunately it’s one that we’ve become alarmingly comfortable with. Then again, I guess it’s easy to shrug it off and literally put the matter behind you when you’re cruising along at high speeds with a good song on the radio. With flattened fauna in mind, another benefit of slow travel has been that, except for bugs, the Metro hasn’t contributed to the roadkill death toll.
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So, those are some of the gritty details of scooting. Fittingly, those unremarkable everyday things discussed in the FAQ’s are about all that characterized my largely uneventful drive through Nebraska’s Sand Hills region (which, with the exception of stalling plans for the Keystone XL Pipeline, are also fairly unremarkable). I would be holing up for the night in the town of Valentine, but with last night’s misery fresh in my mind (and with temperatures in the low 30s expected tonight), I wimped out and elected to get a cheap motel room instead of camping.
It might be a cop out to some extent, but the extra cost was well worth it in terms of warmth and comfort. Besides, when planning the trip, I’d arbitrarily given myself “three strikes” to use on motel accommodations throughout the West, and planned on obtaining some warmer bedding supplies for camping in the near future. And hey, what’s a cross-country road trip without a few stays at seedy, Norman Bates motels?
Town(s) of the Day:
-Pierce, NE
-Pierce, NE
Shout-outs:
-Early morning horse brigade clomping around the streets of Pierce.
-Nice lady at the front desk of the motel in Valentine. It turned out to be a lovely place to stay.
